Blueeyed Easy
by Ageless Drake
Summary: Your eyes are blue, of such a saturation that they are nearly violet. Yaoi. IrvineSurprise!


Your eyes are blue, of such a saturation that they are nearly violet, and always bright with a smile or some hidden knowledge, or perhaps just the Guardian Forces you so willingly sacrifice your memories to when we're out on missions. On every other person I have ever known with red hair like yours, blue was not a color of choice for the eyes. It makes the skin look sallow or the eyes too large. But your eyes are so dark that it doesn't matter that they're blue.

You've caught me staring, more than once, and you always smile when you do, knowingly and triumphant, and keep on whatever you're doing. Sometimes, you camp it up a little when you find me staring at you. If I'm with someone else at the time, and they see your antics, they laugh or snort or scoff and call you a fag. I try not to get angry.

I punched Zell once for calling you a fag. But you probably know that, don't you? You know everything that happens at Balamb Garden, because if Selphie doesn't know, than some other girl you fuck knows and will tell you because you smile at them and play with your hair and are too pretty. Part of your charm is that you are easy—easy on the eyes, easy with your words, easy into and out of bed.

When you catch me staring now, we are alone, and you smile. You aren't doing anything, just cleaning Exeter, and you set that aside to fold your hands over your knees. Your skin, in the moon and fire-light of our pitiful little camp, is a golden-chrome and draws my eyes in swift lines and circles, always returning to your eyes.

When you catch me staring this time, you don't camp it up or laugh it off or ask if I see anything I like. You lean over very slowly until our lips are almost touching, and you ask in a very quiet voice, "You wanna?"

Those two words are surprisingly powerful. We are alone out here, except in our minds where GFs sit Junctioned and ready, and your eyes are open and your lips are close. I can feel your breath. It doesn't surprise me that you'll let me do this with you; you're easy, in so many ways, and that's part of your charm.

So I let you kiss me, but only for a while. When I'm done _letting_ you kiss me—when your hat is on the ground and my hands are buried in your hair and you're scrambling to get our clothes off before one of us creams in our slacks—I push you onto the ground and then _I_ kiss _you_. It's something I've wanted to do for a very long time. And now, doing it, it is not as sweet and pleasant as I had thought it would be.

You are not submissive, too used to young cadets throwing themselves at you without any idea what they're doing. You're too used to being the teacher; is it really that surprising that I do not want or need to be taught?

But you moan when I bite you, when I rough you up. You're naked, and your cheeks are flushed, and all I can do is be triumphant—I have Irvine Kinneas hot and bothered, and I'm barely even trying.

You moan, because you're blue-eyed easy, when I start to fuck you, and you grab my shoulders because the ground is hard and permanently frozen in these parts, and there is nothing to hold onto. Ice burns are a bitch to heal with a Curaga, you tell me, but I just scoff and bite your neck because you _moan_ when I do that.

Maybe Zell and everybody else is right: you are a fag. A slut. Maybe I should be worried about who else you've slept with and if I'll be waking up with a burning itch tomorrow. But right now, I can't think of anything except fucking you.

Because you looked at me, blue-eyed easy, and asked, "You wanna?" And, like any hot-blooded, sane human being—of which I am all things, despite some jokes you've told—I will not pass up an opportunity to be buried balls-deep in Irvine Kinneas (though I suppose, with the ladies, it is that they will not pass up having Irvine Kinneas buried balls-deep in them, but I do not think of this).

When all is done and you return to cleaning your gun, even though you're only wearing your slacks and chaps, I have the common courtesy to ask if I hurt you. You look at me, blue-eyed stunned and incredulous, and laugh off my concern.

You lean over, lips close to mine, and smirk, breath hot as you say to me, "If I didn't want to be hurt, if I wasn't used to it by now, I'd be a poor excuse for a closet-homo, wouldn't I, Almasy?"

And as you lean away without a kiss this time, I know why your eyes are bright and glimmering and oh-so-blue, even when the jealous men call you a fag, even when you get in trouble for being caught with another girl.

So I kiss you instead, and I tell you, "I love you," but you scoff and roll your eyes and tell me to go to sleep. And if you won't believe me, than I know that you will stay like this: oh-so-charming and easy in so many ways, and ever a _fag_ to everyone who hasn't had an opportunity to be buried balls-deep in you.

Your eyes are blue, and you are easy. And I love that about you.


End file.
